


Please Don't Go (I'll Eat You Whole)

by dimeliora



Series: Please Don't Go [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:44:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimeliora/pseuds/dimeliora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an attack Sam begins to re-evaluate himself and his relationship with his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Don't Go (I'll Eat You Whole)

 

 **A/N:** I need to say two things here. This was a gift for Sammichgirl , and a product of her incredible moral support. This is really, really out of my wheelhouse/comfort zone. I'm a happy endings kind of writer, and this isn't really...well you'll see if you've made it past this part. The point is I'd never try this, or post this, if it weren't for her. So if you like it, as always, Sammich is the reason you got to enjoy it. If you don't I'm a very bad person. Very bad.

The second thing? This is a heavily music inspired fic. Like _heavily_ , and while I can't make you each section has a link before it, and let me suggest you open those links in a new tab and let them play while you read. Because I think it loses something without them. Anyway, I'm sorry Winchesters. I like a challenge.

 

[ **Heads Will Roll** ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auzfTPp4moA)

Sam looks down to see that he’s got six missed calls. It takes him a few minutes to understand why he’s so groggy, and then he’s moving as quickly as his sore body will let him.

Events become clearer with every rote movement. The witch, the confrontation, his tearful promise to never manipulate another town member. Dean destroying his supplies and his altar.

Then they came back, sacked out, and that was it. Rest well-earned before they get back on the road and head out for another town and another hunt. Promising stories of disappearing bankers in Athens, Georgia.

At least that was the plan, and then Sam woke in the middle of the night to a noise, rolled over, and had just enough time to blink before the dark shape sunk a needle into his neck. The worst part? Dean was already down as he was fading out of consciousness. Which means Dean is going to give him major shit for not waking up immediately.

Except then Sam realizes that Dean is nowhere around, and that means the worst part is the witch _took his brother_.

Sam’s got his clothes on, weapons in place, and he doesn’t miss that this is an obvious trap. Doesn’t stop either. Instead he loads up the car and drives as fast as he can towards the cabin fifteen miles out of town that the witch’s altar was set in. Whatever the man thought he was achieving Sam is going to make sure they don’t make the mistake they did before. Taking Dean qualifies him for the “no mercy” policy they usually only apply to things that are strictly non-human.

The witch’s car is parked outside of the cabin, and Sam moves slow and easy along the tree line eyeing everything he can. No one is outside, the curtains are all pulled, and there’s smoke escaping from the fireplace. The guy _has_ to know that Sam knows this is a trap. There’s no way he honestly believes that Sam, a hunter, would see this set-up and think he had the upper hand. Even knowing it’s a trap doesn’t give him much of anything.

The choices are piling up, and since it’s a trap anyway Sam rules out the front and back doors. One is the obvious way to go if he’s buying into the psychology that he would never have guessed the weeping man from yesterday was plotting vengeance, and the other is the obvious choice if he’s wary of a trap. Instead Sam picks a window he knows opens on a spare bedroom, and uses his knife to jimmy the lock and slide it up as quietly as he can.

A simple push and he’s hiking himself through the frame and sliding as quietly as possible onto the wood floor. Deeper in the cabin he can hear something soft and rhythmic, something hitting flesh, and if this fucker has been beating Dean then Sam may make it a little slower than a bullet to the head.

The door opens silently, and Sam crouches low and crab-walks down the hall ‘til he can see into the open living room. The vaulted ceiling is just as breathtaking as it was yesterday, the floors gleam with polish and love, and in the center of the room is his brother. Dean is alone, unbound, and punching himself in the gut in a precise and calm manner. There is no expression on his brother’s handsome face, no spark of life in the green eyes Sam loves, and no recognition of the pain he is obviously causing himself.

It is incredibly hard to not speed across the room and grab Dean’s fist. Instead Sam scans the room over and over, but he sees no sign of the witch. He has very few choices now. Sam knows from experience how hard Dean can hit, and how dangerous repetitive blows like that can be in areas with so many vital and vulnerable organs. If he can’t control himself enough to not use his own stomach as a punching bag he’s probably not with it enough to tense the muscles and protect himself.

Knowing that it’s a mistake, that he’s making himself vulnerable, Sam crosses the room and grabs Dean’s fist. He hears the smug laughter even as Dean’s other hand lifts the gun Sam didn’t see and presses it firmly against his own temple.

For a moment Sam remembers a few nights ago, before the hunt technically began, when Dean had just finished fucking his brains out and Sam had been lying limp and sated on the bed staring at his brother’s flushed face and heaving chest. Impulsively he had leaned over and kissed that very temple, eyes sweeping closed to avoid whatever mocking expression Dean would no doubt have. He can remember the timbre of Dean’s voice, extra-gravelly and fucked-out, sliding over him rich with amusement.

_“Ah Samantha, that was sweet.”_

It’s the unspoken rule that what they do does not get discussed, and that it is simply stress relief. For Dean anyway. Sam has never fought that rule, and he’s never questioned it. He can just see it in the lines of Dean’s body when he redresses. In the lack of post-coital cuddling, or how they still get two beds when Dean isn’t planning on scratching his itch. They don’t make it more than the most basic level of release, and Sam hates that. Always has.

Back to Dean, the gun, and the laughing witch. Sam feels his jaw tense as he turns slowly and lifts his hands up to show he only has the one gun out. The witch’s smirk is broad, square chin twitching his mirth, and Sam hates him more than anything they’ve faced in a long time.

“You idiots really thought it would be that easy? A little bit of intimidation and I would just stop. Do you know how powerful I am?” The guy’s brown eyes dance with mirth as he crosses the open space and tilts his head. “Now who’s going to cry for mercy?”

Sam can’t help the little laugh that explodes out of his mouth. The idea of either of them crying for mercy is just too funny for him to keep his face serious. The witch doesn’t seem to care for that much, and Sam hears the hammer connected to the gun Dean is holding click back.

“I wouldn’t laugh boy. One thought and your brother pulls that trigger. Now, let’s talk ‘bout what I need to let you both walk out of here with your lives.” The witch takes another step forward and Sam telegraphs his crouch so that he can put the gun on the floor and kick it over. May as well get that out of the way.

“Ok. What do you want?” Sam keeps his voice as steady as his gaze. Doesn’t share the turmoil, the voice screaming Dean’s name in his mind, or the fact that all his hands want to do is shake. How long does the brain still fire after death? What are the chances he could kill the witch, and the bastard would still have time to think Dean into suicide? It’s been so long since Biology 101 at Stanford.

The witch’s mouth purses, his head tilts again, and then his smile crosses from creepy to downright frightening. Sam knows that smile. He’s seen it enough times after all.

“Take your clothes off.” Simple as that. _They’re gonna use it against us_. Sam’s eyes cut to Dean as he remembers the words. Well, Dean was right again, but Sam doubts his brother knew to what extent this time.

“I could just drop all my weapons and you could search me. I’m not going to risk you making Dean pull the trigger.” It’s a desperate ploy, because Sam knows his concern is not for hidden weapons, and the witch knows Sam knows it.

The bastard laughs at that, outright, and then takes another step forward. He’s taunting Sam, getting close enough to be easily taken down, because he _wants_ Sam to grab him. Anything he can do to Sam naked pales in comparison to the pain of losing Dean, and the witch knows that. It’s that image, Dean dead on the floor with the cooling gun in one slack hand, that keeps Sam perfectly still and totally silent.

“That’s not the plan. The plan, darlin’, is to spread you out and fuck your tight little ass right in front of him. He can see all of it in there you know. He’ll remember everything. I’m gonna make you my bitch, and then the two of you are gonna drive off as far as it takes for my control to slip. You ever step back in my radius though, and we’ll play this game again. Now strip.”

Sam swallows once, looks at Dean, and then reaches up to unbutton his flannel over-shirt. He can hold on to the fact that despite knowing what’s coming his fingers are completely steady. Layer after layer peels off without a single tremble, and the look of pride in the witch’s eyes diminishes with that. It’s a little victory, petty and simple, but Sam clutches at it tightly. When it’s done, and he’s naked, he stands as tall as he can and looks down at the witch.

“Well?” Defiance is it. That’s all he’s got, and Sam’s a Winchester. Defiance is their equivalent of blood.

There’s a moment where Sam really hopes that the witch has lost his nerve. That’s he’s going to see how useless this is and back out. Instead the man makes a hand gesture and leans in close enough Sam can smell the reek of his sweat barely covered by the overly musky scent of his cologne. “Hands and knees.”

Sam gets down, and from his starting position this makes his hip press against Dean’s leg. He tries to shuffle sideways, but the witch’s boot tip presses into Sam’s ribs with force and Sam holds still.

“I’m not a total monster. Take a little comfort from having him close by.” The grin is back, all signs of hesitance gone, and Sam thinks about the many, many options he has after this is over. All the different ways he can pay this man back.

The guy crouches down beside Sam, and he studies the stressed denim stretched over the man’s knees, the scuff in the stereotypical cowboy boots, and the jarringly well-manicured nails. City-clicker playing at rough and tumble rancher. They’re in Texas. This is happening in Texas. Isn’t sodomy still illegal in Texas?

“Lick it.” Sam’s eyes raise enough to see the single digit extended in front of his face, the hand he hadn’t been studying, and he swallows again before leaning forward and giving the finger a cursory lick. It tastes like smoke, herbs, and gun oil. Sam’s familiar with most of those things.

One lick is apparently not enough, because the finger shakes again and Sam licks once more, and again, and then the whole thing leaves his view. He’s prepared for what happens next, and it’s hard as hell to stay relaxed even though he knows that’s the best way to approach this.

A hard shove, a burning pain, and then Sam is in control again as the thick digit spears into him. He keeps his hands flat on the floor and his face as expressionless as possible. The line of Dean’s leg is hot against his side, and he can feel the way his brother’s muscles are trembling. Dean is not happy. It’s radiating off of him with every second that passes, getting more and more intense, and Sam wonders just how much control Dean has.

Rough fingers grab his left nipple, twist hard, and Sam can’t stop the soft cry of pain or the way his upper body moves instinctively away from the questing hand. He has to focus, can’t be distracted, because if he does then this is going to be so much worse. Sam wills every muscle to go lax other than the ones holding him up, and when the witch pinches his other nipple Sam remains silent and still.

He’s felt worse.

The same hand trails down his ribs, and over his bellybutton , and then the finger in his ass disappears and Sam expects he’ll have to lick it again in some bizarre form of humiliation. Except he doesn’t, because apparently one finger is enough. Instead there’s a sharp slap to his ass, Dean’s leg jerks against his side, and then he’s being ripped into by what has to be the world’s driest cock.

The pain, sharper and harder than Sam could have ever expected, sends the breath out of his lungs and his arms collapse underneath him. Sam’s chin slams into the floor and his mouth fills with blood when his teeth clamp down on his tongue. He can’t get breath, can’t move beyond the sensation of being torn into, and his fingers claw helplessly at the wood floor while the witch pants behind him and thrusts further and further in.

“Don’t scratch my floors bitch. Do you know how expensive those are?” The voice is full of disdain, no passion or joy, and somehow that’s worse. The mechanization of it, the simplistic understanding that this is an exercise in pain and not sex.

There’s no porn dialogue, no belittling and debasement, and Sam understands why. This is enough. The tiny whimpers he can’t seem to make stop coming out, the puddle of blood and saliva his face is skidding through with every thrust, and the reflexive clenching and unclenching of his hands as the hardwood bruises his knees and the cock in his ass removes any delusions that he can handle this with grace or aplomb.

The gunshot comes as a surprise though. Sam doesn’t even try to stop the wail of horror, of loss and pain, as he’s sprayed with blood and something more substantial. Then the witch is gone and Sam collapses to the hardwood floor and loses his grip on consciousness.

\----  
[ **Perfect Day**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYEC4TZsy-Y)

When Sam wakes up there’s a warm washcloth rubbing over his face, his mouth tastes awful, and green eyes are staring with dead intent somewhere just beyond his face. Sam blinks several times, and then realizes that the shitty ceiling beyond those eyes is the motel, and that this is Dean cleaning him off. Dean, decidedly free of a bullet to the skull, and not emoting a single thing.

 _Dean_.

Sam licks his lips, opens his mouth, and Dean shakes his head once. His voice sounds like a particularly antagonistic ghost speaking from beyond the grave. “Lie still. Don’t talk.”

Dean’s eyes disappear, and Sam feels the cloth travel between his legs. He whimpers once, pulls away, but Dean holds his hip to keep him still and steady. “Gotcha Sammy. I gotcha.”

There’s silence as Dean works, and Sam bites back the hiss of discomfort when Dean dips the washcloth inside of him and then mutters a low curse. After a few moments the comforting heat of his brother is gone, and Sam has time to think about what this means.

His brother, his stubborn and crazy brother, managed to break what was no doubt a ridiculously powerful spell to shoot the witch. _Wonders will never cease._

When Dean comes back he makes a shushing noise Sam hasn’t heard in years, and then fingers coated in something thick and viscous rub against his rim and slide into him. Sam feels disgusting, sore, but most importantly he wants Dean to leave it alone. Wants to take care of it himself. Still, he’s smarter than trying to argue with Dean when his brother gets like this.

Instead Sam holds perfectly still, and when it’s done Dean pulls the comforter over Sam and sits on the floor with his back to him. Sam can see every detail of Dean’s tight shoulders, the hair that needs trimmed at the back of his neck, and the way his brother rubs at that spot over and over trying to work out a tension that will never disappear. A gesture Dean has had since he was very young and learning just how much responsibility the world could dump on one little boy.

Sam wants to reach out. Wants to touch Dean and ground both of them in the fact that they’re alive and well. That everything else means nothing in comparison to being together. Except when his hand lands on Dean’s shoulder his brother pulls away violently and then resettles when he knows Sam won’t try again.

“Go to sleep Sam. Gonna keep watch.”

\----

They stay in the motel room for three days. Long enough for Sam to be able to walk at a slow but normal gait, to have taken his own showers, and to realize that Dean is not interested in comforting or being comforted.

Silence. They exist in a realm of perpetual silence. When Sam reaches for his brother Dean pulls away. When he tries to break the thick blanket of silence Dean answers with a word, maybe two, and a look on his face like he can’t believe Sam is even trying.

So Sam stops trying. Sam stops talking in general unless it’s absolutely necessary. He points to his orders in diners and smiles at the waitress, he uses hand gestures, and ultimately he simply slides into this new existence.

It never occurred to him that Dean would be disgusted with him afterwards. Logically Sam knew that this was the concern most people in his situation have, but this was _Dean_. Dean had seen Sam do far worse than submit for some asshole witch, and never once had it been like this. Suddenly Sam’s whole worldview is brought into question. It appears that he is capable of doing every evil thing in the book, but that letting himself be violated is the straw that broke Dean’s back.

Hunting becomes problematic in a whole new way. Their rhythm is off, Sam can’t seem to find it in this new world, and the result is a dramatic rise in injuries. Every time it’s over and they find themselves back in the motel room Dean manhandles him into position to be taken care of, performs every first-aid function with a rote mechanization, and then brushes off Sam’s silent offer to return the favor.

He hates it. Hates every second of it. He’s not fragile, not broken, but the blankness in Dean’s usually expressive face is too much. The loss of that closeness, of his brother’s swaggering sex god persona, and the sudden introduction of a Dean that Sam always expected to see and never received is too much.

Sam starts waking up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. He can’t find his breath, and every time this happens he finds Dean sitting on the floor beside his bed. Sam becomes intimately familiar with the back of Dean’s head, with the quiet sound of Dean’s even breathing in the dark as his brother sits beside the bed and never moves or makes a sound.

It’s as close to love as Sam gets these days.

\----

 

[ **Breezeblocks** ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rVeMiVU77wo)

 

The cycle breaks one night in a bar in Minnesota. Dean is hustling, and doing a shit job of it. He can’t even fake his usual jocularity here, and the result is a form of intimidation that makes the number of potential challengers fairly slim.

Sam is sitting at the bar watching nothing and seeing less. That’s why he misses the trouble coming his way.

He hasn’t been eating the way he knows he should, training has fallen to the wayside because it would require Dean touching him when he’s not bleeding, and the result is a loss in mass and muscle tone that Sam wasn’t really prepared for. All of that coupled with the nightmares leaves Sam in what seems like a perpetual state of walking death.

When the hand lands on his lower back, no warning and no preparation, Sam is hideously embarrassed at the small shriek that exits his mouth.

Before he has time to look at the man that touched him, or blush over the sound coming from his mouth, Dean is there like an avenging angel. An analogy Sam is uniquely qualified to make. The bar patron jerks back like an actor on wires, and the crash as he falls through a table is cacophonous in the sudden silence covering the bar.

Sam watches in shock, mouth hanging open, as Dean follows the guy down. The sound coming out of his brother’s mouth is hideous, animalistic, and totally insane. Dean’s fists fly to every vulnerable portion of the guy, connect with his face, his stomach, and then two solid hits to the man’s groin. It takes four patrons to pull his brother off of the guy, and the snarl on his face gives them a lot of pause.

It gives _Sam_ pause. This isn’t Dean. This is a wild animal that has been recently released from its cage. There is not a trace of his cool, self-possessed brother in the snarling monster they barely manage to contain. Then Sam is crossing the room, and his rusty voice comes out thick as he reaches for Dean.

“Sorry, sorry. Protective. Sorry.” He gets a hand on Dean and expects his brother to jerk away. Instead Dean pulls Sam in, buries Sam in his embrace, and jerks and tugs ‘til Sam is tripping over his own feet as Dean basically drags him out of the bar and into the cool night air.

The silence pervades until they’re back at their motel. Dean doesn’t break contact through the whole ride. His hand, the one not holding the wheel, keeps touching Sam’s knee, his shoulder, sliding along the line of his back and moving up into his hair. It’s not gentle, not possessive, but electric and vicious. Sam’s not sure if it’s an extension of the violence in the bar or a whole new kind.

Either way by the time they reach the motel room he’s shaking, and he can’t stop. It shouldn’t be this way. Shouldn’t be so frightening to be in an enclosed space with Dean. This is what he’s wanted after all. He’s wanted Dean to want him again. It doesn’t matter if it’s mechanic, if it’s just Dean getting off, because it’s everything to Sam and that’s what he needs. He needs the connection again.

He’s been trying, trying to get Dean to see him that way again since the witch in Texas, and now he’s gotten his wish, so why is he shaking so goddamn hard?

Dean drags him across the salt line, checks it briefly, and then shoves Sam backwards onto the bed. He can feel everything around him practically vibrating with tension. Can see the fire burning so deep and hot in Dean’s eyes that it looks like there’s a bonfire inside Dean’s skull. His brother crosses the room, deadly and hard, and then grabs Sam’s ankle and lifts it before he rips the laces of Sam’s shoe apart.

Sam can do this. Sam can let Dean work out his aggression, his anger at what Sam let happen, and then they’ll be back to what they were before. They’ll talk again, as much as they ever did, and Sam will be able to meet Dean’s eyes. He’ll be able to sleep through the night, and shake people’s hands, and make full sentences.

Except when Dean goes for his belt Sam panics, the world fades away, and when he comes back to himself the room is full of a high-pitched noise he doesn’t recognize and Dean’s holding his cheek and studying Sam. Sam’s hand hurts. Why does his hand hurt, and why won’t that noise fucking _stop_?

Then Dean is down on his knees, ten feet away and face full of an emotion Sam doesn’t recognize on his brother. _Pleading_. Dean is pleading, hands out and head tilted in a posture that suggests apology and fear.

“Please baby boy. Please you gotta stop. Breathe real deep for me and stop Sammy. I need you to stop.”

Stop…it’s him. He’s the source of the noise. He’s the screaming. And the rest of it? The things he wanted to get back? He’s the reason they’re happening. The silence is probably him too, otherwise why is he silent with strangers too, and Sam begins to wonder how many things he’s read wrong. Just how far off he’s been about how well he was coping. Dean holds both hands a little further out and makes a gesture that is infinitely tender and sweet.

“Come here. Come to me baby. I gotcha. I gotcha.” And Sam does. He crawls across the carpet, fingers twitching and trembling in the cheap fibers, and eventually lands with his face pressed against Dean’s thigh. “Talk to me Sammy. Talk to me.”

If he was himself, if it didn’t feel like his lungs were pumping out lava, Sam would make fun of that. Say if he knew this was what it took to make Dean talk about their issues he would have done it sooner.

It’s not even funny in his head.

Instead all that comes out is wheezing breath for a little while, and then he starts spilling poison into the air as Dean’s shaking hands stroke his hair and shoulders. “Would’ve killed you, was gonna kill you so pain was-and I thought I could take it but-Dean I thought I was gonna take it so well but-I just wanted to be strong and-“ He’s sobbing now, confessing to Dean as his brother makes soft little noises. “You’ve done so much and-I know we’re just-I’m just a release but-oh god Dean I need it. I need you to love me like that. I’m so fucking dirty now. I just let him, but I didn’t have a choice. It was that or lose you.”

Sam can’t look up, there’s nothing left in the tank to make him look up, but it’s not necessary. Dean’s voice, when he finally responds, says more than his face ever could. It’s love, his brother’s love and something more, and it heals a broken part of Sam he is just starting to recognize.

“Is that what you thought? For a genius you’re kinda dumb sometimes Sammy. Ain’t never thought of that as anything other than what it was. Me finally getting you in every way I could. I’m just a coward, and I thought if I distanced after it would be easier if it ended.” Dean’s fingers tangle in his hair and move slow and soft through the strands before diving deeper to rub into his scalp. “I love you as much as anybody can love anything baby boy, and I don’t think you’re dirty. I think I fucked up, and it’s something I can’t make up to you anytime soon, but I will. God Sammy, you gotta believe me when I say I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you give me a chance. You gonna give me a chance? Believe I love you and I think you’re the greatest goddamn thing in the world?”

There’s a moment when he can’t react, can’t respond, and then Sam takes a deep breath and forces himself to look upwards. To see Dean looking down at him, and the look _is_ as good as the voice.

It gives him hope.

That night they sleep in the same bed, their fingers touching at the tips, and when Sam wakes up he’s shifted, but Dean’s kept that simple contact. He studies Dean’s face, a thing he’s avoided since the witch, and sees the deep bags under his brother’s eyes and the lines of tension that are only now starting to relax in sleep. Thinks of all the times he woke up screaming and how Dean was already there before it got to that point.

Yep, that’s _hope_.  



End file.
